


New and the Same

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Complete, F/M, For Nurdles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth. NSFW Challenge response for Nurdles. The prompt is 'striptease'. Modern AU. Oneshot. Just smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New and the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nurdles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurdles/gifts).



> Nurdles, as you know, this has been sitting, unloved, on my computerometer for a couple of months. My apologies for the delay in posting it. I was just a bit meh for a while. I hope you haven't minded the wait too much. :)
> 
> My thanks, as ever, to the wonderful RoseHeart. Her skills in the Great Comma Hunt far outweigh my own and she is ever a delight to know.
> 
> So 'striptease' was the prompt. I kinda managed that. Sort of. It was supposed to be a ficlet. It's not. If I recall, it was also supposed to be semi-NSFW. I may have fallen down there too. Final warning: this fic is NSFW. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own it not.

 

NEW AND THE SAME

_"And in the shock result of the night, the Winterfell Warriors were soundly thrashed by the unfancied Sunspear Scorchers. As their first outright defeat in two whole seasons after a run of three ties, commentators are saying that this might mark a turning point in the Wolves' dominance on the ice. If it is, team coach Ned Stark refused to say so in post-match..."_

Brienne blanches at the volume of the Morning Sports Report on KLR and quickly turns the radio down a touch. It hadn't seemed as loud last night, when Tyrion had decided their get together would be much more entertaining with some not so subtle background music.

_Dothraki razorgrass? Dear Gods, I hate it. All tuneless wailing about horses and women, with no real distinction between the two._

She shakes her head, her mind still a little foggy despite having showered and put on one of her loose, buttoned shirts and a pair of shorts. She hadn't wanted to get halfway to the kitchen, in only a towel, to stumble across Tyrion if he'd returned, though it looks as if he stayed at Tysha's. Naturally, he hadn't bothered to clean up his ale bottles before he left. Brienne sighs and collects the empties on the table, dumping them unceremoniously in the recycling bin, wincing at the crash of glass on glass before moving back to the tea-kettle. She pours the boiling water into her mug and leans against the counter, idly watching the steam rise from her drink.

She and Jaime have only really been together for a fortnight or so, with last night's impromptu celebration held at his brother's insistence after he found out, albeit that Brienne hadn't dared ask Jaime how. Who knows, with Tyrion? She doesn't think she _wants_ to know. It doesn't matter, in any case. However it happened, Jaime’s younger brother had turned up early yesterday evening with a huge, clanking bag and a mind full of mild obscenities that left poor Tysha spending half of their visit hiding her face in her hands. But even if he teased them mercilessly, it is clear that Tyrion is genuinely pleased for them both.

_Perhaps not as pleased as we are._

The small hours had seen them come together again, their mood a little silly after the drinks, but no less rewarding for it, with breathless joy and heat. She arches her back slightly, the stone of the worksurface hard against the side of her hip. The soreness in her still feels new and welcome. She smiles as she lifts her mug to her lips.

_I’ve never been happier._

She sips at her tea, but it is too hot, so she places it back down, rolling her head, feeling the muscles in her neck loosen. Brienne finds herself biting her lip as she recalls his eyes, lit only by the light spilling down into their basement flat from the street outside, when it was still dark. He’d muttered _‘Are you trying to kill me?’,_ laughing against her, looking up over her body from in between her legs as she tried to kick him off because his mouth felt _too_ good.

And to think she might never have known about any of this. Less than a moon ago, her only experience, other than those she sought to find on her own, had been mediocre, followed quickly by sheer humiliation. She had long since given up hope of having anyone.

_Not true. Not of having anyone. Of having Jaime._

He’d pitched up on her doorstep in the rain two years past, looking like a soaked and abandoned animal in the night, having lost _everything_. Despite their animosity, words had tumbled out of him as he shivered in the doorway, more in shock than from the chill, a lone rucksack over his shoulder. Brienne remembers distractedly looking at how bright a red the bag was, though it was wet through, as the truth came spilling from him, unwanted but needed by them both, twisted and dark. “I have nowhere else to go,” he’d finished, his teeth chattering, and she had let him in. A warm towel, a hot drink and a change of clothes turned into a night’s uneasy rest on her sofa, which then became a surprisingly easy domesticity as he had, with her silent agreement, moved into the spare room so recently left by Margaery.

Naturally, the change hadn’t been entirely seamless. She’d glowed like a beacon two days later when she had absently left her newly washed smallclothes on the radiator in the bathroom, only to have Jaime meander into the living room a little while later, a damp pair of plain black knickers dangling from his fingertips and an eyebrow raised in amusement. He always left the cap off the toothpaste and Brienne fears the great toilet seat war will never really come to an end, even now. Most of their arguments, however, have always been about coin. At first, he had had no idea of the cost of anything at all, seeming to leave the heating on all the time and running every single appliance in the house at any hour, regardless of need.

She called him a trust fund idiot _._ He called her a nagging aurochs. Yet they got over it.

_Speaking of which…_

She turns as Jaime wanders in, looking a tad disheveled in grey sweatpants and a clinging, white T-shirt. He smiles at her a bit blearily as he goes and does what he always does, whenever he walks into their small kitchen. He opens the door of the tall, thin fridge, leaning on the top of it with the elbow of his handless arm, and stares into it, even if nothing has changed in there since he did the same thing after Tyrion and Tysha left last night.

Not that she'll ever complain about this particular habit of his again. It was, after all, a late night argument about it that had flipped, in seconds, from frustration in both of them to a furious, hard fuck on the floor of the darkened hallway. It was all firm mouths and sharp pleasure while they failed to make it to the bedroom, crying out each other's names as they tore at one another's clothes, wanting to touch more skin. Brienne lifts her tea and sips at it, remembering how she had still been shaking under him when he looked down at her, his eyes a little wild and his grin crooked afterwards. How his voice had been low, breathless, rough as he had simply said, _"So...not just me then?"_

The sound of rummaging in the fridge brings her back to the here and now, and Brienne muses on whether or not he will emerge with something this time. The chances are low. He rarely does, and she has yet to work out quite what is so interesting in there, but it does lend her the opportunity to steal a quick glance at his backside as he runs the top of one foot over his other calf. She only peeks for a moment, and he isn't looking at her, yet she still feels forced to drag her eyes away from him.

_I'm not used to letting myself see him this way yet._

Once he’d moved in, it hadn't taken her long to fall desperately in love with Jaime. At first she had thought it another foolish crush, like the one she'd had on Renly, the ultimate in unattainable men. Safe to love, because it would never, could never, happen. Yet with Jaime, it soon became so much worse. Far more painful. With him, Brienne knew it was hopeless, not because of his orientation, but simply due to her being undeniably ugly. The very opposite of him, in fact. It hadn't helped that he'd eventually taken to wandering around the flat shirtless and yet later, just in his undershorts. She'd had no idea that he was merely clueless as to how to catch her interest. After all, his own experience was bizarrely limited and his attempts at flattery only ended in misunderstanding and more strife. So she became peculiarly adept at averting her eyes whenever he seemed to forget some of his clothes.

Even now, she is unused to really looking at him in daylight. Their schedules are such that they tend to fall into bed together in the darker hours of night. Come the morning, they are often both too busy to be in each other's company, with the exceptions being the few occasions he has joined her in the shower, the rising steam giving their encounters a dreamlike quality, spilling over from sleep. Brienne has a moment of sense memory, the press of cold tiles, hard against her back as he pushes into her and she smiles when Jaime finally emerges from the fridge. He shuts the door and waves a carton in her direction, his look a familiar mixture of sarcasm and small victory. He knows she was expecting him to come away with nothing, so he just has to prove her wrong.

She watches him take the few short steps to stand leaning against the cupboards opposite her. He begins his now practiced method of opening the juice, a simple task, but one which, like so many, he had found utterly frustrating in the weeks and months after losing his hand. He tears at clear plastic with his teeth and pulls out the straw, holding it between his lips until he places the carton down, only then puncturing the small, silver circle on top of it, to get to the drink.

He lifts it again and sucks on the straw. Brienne automatically distracts herself from his thrice-damned cheekbones, though she doesn’t even have to now, by considering going upstairs to check for the post. But then, given her encounter with their landlady in the communal area the previous morning, she thinks she might leave it for a little while. Her sudden embarrassment must be writ large on her face, for Jaime asks her a question, all too clearly curious. "What are you thinking about, Brienne?"

"Olenna. I met her by the postboxes yesterday.” She tries to speak three times, only to end up whispering, “ _Our bathroom is below her living room_.”

“Oh,” Jaime exhales before he bites his lip and his mouth slowly settles into a grin. “She's an early riser, then?”

“I think she is now!” Brienne bursts out. “She said, 'I only wish I were younger, dear. You’ve made me quite nostalgic.’”

Jaime laughs, carefree. “She isn’t a bad old stick, is she? No matter my family’s opinion of her.”

“She likes me,” Brienne simply says.

“An indication of good taste,” Jaime replies. “Plus the rent is reasonable.”

“We have Margaery to thank for that. I asked Olenna if she wanted to raise it after she left, but she told me she didn’t need the coin anyway. I really think she enjoys having me around.”

Jaime throws his now empty juice carton at her and it bounces off her shoulder and onto the floor. “Like I said, good taste. Though only _you_ would ask for a rent increase.” Brienne huffs at him and leans down to pick up the carton, only to find, when she turns after throwing it into the bin, that Jaime is unashamedly letting his eyes wander over the long expanses of her lightly freckled legs.

He doesn’t seem at all unhappy with what he is seeing and it still confuses her. He knows it and when his gaze finally meanders its merry way back up to her face, he gives the tiniest shake of his head. “Stop it, Brienne.” His teeth flash at her. “I’ve long wanted to spend a few days camping between your legs. Just to get to know them better, you understand.”

The thought of that is enough to make her catch her breath, but she can’t let it pass. “As if you have ever been camping in your life.”

“Seems like a good place to start,” he says, quick as a whip, yet slow like honey.

She can only gape at him. He shrugs playfully and absently scratches at his stomach. The movement pulls at the cotton of his shirt and Brienne watches as a beautiful slice of tanned skin and muscle is revealed. She gasps softly and drops her gaze away, unused as yet to the simple freedom of looking at him.

“Brienne.”

She says nothing, finding her toes extraordinarily interesting all of a sudden.

“Brienne.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m going to take my shirt off.”

She is flushing red and she feels ridiculous, because it isn’t as if they are teenagers heading towards their first fumble.

“You can look at me, Brienne,” he continues softly. “All you want to. Whenever you want to.” 

_I want to. And I can. I really can._

The realization hits her like a thunderclap. She brings her head up and looks at him levelly. “Best you get on with it then.”

Jaime bites his lip. “I think I will.”

And so, to the sound of a dull report from the Bear Island Yacht Race, Jaime Lannister starts to remove his clothes.

As he lifts the hem of his shirt once more, with lingering slowness, Brienne struggles to find any golden skin she hasn't already laid her lips upon, hasn't tasted. He truly takes his time and she lets her eyes wash over every tiny piece of him in the bright morning sunshine. Sometimes it seems too much, for he is perfect, a living and breathing sculpture of a man, and her gaze threatens to skitter away. But Jaime is watching and he stops moving until she settles again.

Almost languidly, narrow hips and a finely muscled abdomen give way to stomach and ribs. The sight of them near sets her palms to itching, she wants to feel them so much. Still, white cotton travels upwards and the fine brush of his chest hair emerges, along with pebbled nipples which make her smile.

_He seems quite happy._

Though of course, she need only look down for further confirmation of _that._

Given that he is doing this with his lone hand, he has to pull his right arm free first. She can hardly object, the movement and flexing of his damaged arm and his shoulder nothing but pleasing to her anyway.

Jaime sees her looking at his empty wrist and she knows he will find nothing in her but want for him, regardless. His smile widens as his face disappears into his shirt. He is pulling it sideways when the jingle for the upcoming Pyramid Games of Meereen rings out, disconcertingly loudly, from the radio. They both laugh at the ridiculously catchy tune and Jaime’s following words are muffled as he shakes his head free. "Not the best tune to strip to, but I think I can work with it."

He lets the white shirt slide down his left arm and grasps it. Then he twirls it around his head and lets it go. It flies across the kitchen and lands in the sink. Brienne tries to glare at him in disapproval, but the jingle ends and the announcer's first words after it make her snort out loud.

Jaime looks at her as if he hasn’t been studying the form guides with her for months. “What’s wrong with Team Dragonstone?”

“Not a chance, as you well know,” she mutters, as she allows her eyes to roam over him freely, with not one whit of aversion.

“Good,” he says and Brienne doesn’t think he’s referring to the never-ending sporting career of Stannis Baratheon.

He starts to hum, the almost comedic jingle somehow transformed into something suggestive within the confines of his mouth. He looks at her steadily, daring her to keep doing so herself as he pulls the waistband of his sweatpants away from his skin and lowers it just a touch on one side. He holds it for a moment and then lets go. It snaps softly back to him, leaving the planes of his abdomen and one hip enticingly bare. There are a couple of small bruises visible that she must be accountable for. She sucks in her lower lip for just a second as she thinks of holding him there as he takes her. It has turned out that they can be quite enthusiastic, sometimes, in the bedroom.

Jaime tilts his head in a silent question. She nods and he does the same for the other side, reaching across his body this time and tugging the grey material lower. He does this a few times and Brienne can hardly think, and dare not speak, because she loves all of him.

Then there is an obstruction of sorts. Jaime’s cock is clearly hard and he grasps at the waistband above it. Wordlessly, he works it lower over himself, but when he lets go this time, the sweatpants slide inexorably down his thighs and past his knees. He glares at them for such an act of mutiny but then he winks at Brienne and leans comfortably back against the cupboards behind him.

And there he is. All of him. Staggering.

_So beautiful._

He is standing there, in their small kitchen, with just his sweatpants pooled about his ankles and Brienne can’t figure it out.

_How can he want me?_

_Me?_

The panic of the question clutches at her in an instant, the doubts she has always carried still hers to bear. But Jaime sees and he won’t let them stand. “Brienne, don’t do this to yourself. If I didn’t want you, I would’ve been gone a long time ago.” He _means_ it. Yet being Jaime, he can’t help but add a bit more. “Besides, I don’t think it’s possible for my _cock_ to lie.”

It’s then that she understands. He may be standing there naked, but he is definitely still Jaime. He is the same, as she is, even if _they_ are not.

She watches him as he considers his sweatpants. In the end he resorts to a stomping motion, as if he were a soldier, kicking them awkwardly away across the floor when he untangles his feet from them. It isn’t quite what Brienne would think of as a traditional end to a striptease, but she likes it well enough.

He looks back up at her wryly. “I’ve had no professional training in this area,” he says, with as much dignity as he can muster, but then looks to the corner of the room. “It’s a little small,” he says lightly, “but do you think we should get a pole in here? I could practice danc…”

She can’t help herself. The word ‘pole’ sets her eyes to dropping and Jaime steps closer to her, his grin wide. “Brienne. I _saw_ that.”

She just stares at him and chooses not to speak.

For a minute they stand there, a familiar game made new. Neither of them will look away, but in the end, Jaime speaks. “It seems a pity for you to be so quiet,” he says and slides his fingers up her thigh, brushing them under the edge of her shorts.  

Brienne whimpers at that, just for a moment and Jaime does nothing but more of the same, rough skin caressing its way around her leg, just beneath the hem circling high on it. Hardly a touch, it is a ghost of a thing, but her skin comes alive and by the time he works his way to her inner thigh, she feels like screaming. Then he stops and she reaches out to her sides and grasps at the edge of the cold stone behind her to calm herself. 

Even so, she quietly says, “I want you.”

Jaime gifts a single press of his lips to her neck and leans back. He sweeps his eyes speculatively around them, skirting over the worksurfaces and landing on the small, but sturdy table she had so recently cleared.

“No,” she says, with a certain firmness, aware of what he is thinking.

“Why not?” he frowns, completely unconvincingly, especially as his fingers remain drifting over the skin of her thigh. “It’s strong enough.”

“Your brother might come back, Jaime.”

_One of us has to try to be sensible._

“We should go back to bed, I suppose,” he pretends to grumble. “I wouldn’t want us to corrupt his innocent little mind.”

Brienne laughs gently. “Too late for that, I think.”

He tilts his head towards the table. “Should we, then?”

“Not today,” she says, lifting her hand to his face, rubbing fondly at the rough stubble on his chin. “But do remind me to thank him for that ispace post, when we aren’t too busy,” she teases. “What did it say again?” She knows what it had said. Of course she does. Jaime’s head falls against her shoulder and he chuckles as they both think back to the drunken net message that ended his life as he knew it and brought her to him on a rainy, winter’s night.

Despite being older than Brienne, Tyrion has only recently settled into a state of anything less than trouble. Having been missing for weeks, back then, he’d posted a picture of himself hugging a young woman with silver hair. They had both been swigging the most vile looking, rainbow coloured cocktails in an extremely well-appointed club. “Hanging with my new bud D-Targz in Meereen. Get out of C’s bed and come over here, bro!” Jaime falls silent and shakes his head, unable to speak further at the absurdity of it, just grinning against her skin.

So Brienne finishes the infamous message for him, her voice soft. “D’s _totally_ over the dad thing.” Tyrion had deleted the post within hours, having sobered up a little, but by then the damage had been done.

Slowly, Jaime’s head rises and he smiles up at her. “With hindsight, it really wasn’t so bad.” He leans into her and the weight of him, pressing her back against the low cupboards, feels so right against her that she sucks in a fast breath, the air whistling through her teeth.

But then she narrows her gaze at him. “Of course it wasn’t,” she tries to say with the utmost seriousness, though her voice is husky. “You hardly moped about it at all.”

“I like it when you lie. You do it so _badly_ ,” he teases in his turn. “Now, where were we?”

Brienne is gripped by the sudden need to be bold. Well, at least as much as she can bear to be. She pushes Jaime away, just a little. Then she lifts her fingers to her shirt and undoes the top button. But she doesn’t know what to do with her hand, so she just rests it on the white cotton over her breast.

Jaime slowly looks up and Brienne would swear that she can actually see his eyes darken. “Promising,” he whispers. Quickly, she undoes one more. And then, with less haste, another. After that, she stops, unable to go further, and drops her hand with a shy shrug.

Jaime doesn’t seem to mind. “Well, that’s a good start,” he says, the tone of his voice deeper, full of need. “And I’m sure I can help you with the rest. If you want me to.” Brienne smiles at him, all teeth and happiness. At that, his mouth starts to descend to explore the small patch of pale skin she’s just exposed. When he leans back in, the very tip of his cock is a little wet, slipping against her thigh as his lips dance over her, soft brushes that seem sure to drive her to madness before his tongue starts to flick out. The feel of it makes her shudder against him. “Jaime.” She sighs his name into the morning air as warmth gathers and simmers through her. Sweet and wanting.

“ _Jaimeeeee_ ,” he mimics, his own name vibrating across her skin, through her.

She runs her fingers through his hair, raises his head and kisses him. He tastes strange, of the mint of toothpaste, of the citrus juice, but of himself too. For what feels like an age, yet somehow not long enough, their lips touch and play, until they are both softly moaning. Then Jaime pulls back a touch and takes a moment to catch his breath. “If this is how you’re going to react every time I take my clothes off for you, I’ll just have to do it more.”

Brienne doesn’t care. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop you,” she pants out and starts to suck gently at his lower lip. She bumps herself away from the wood and stone behind her and gradually begins edging Jaime backwards through the kitchen. His ribs shake against her with silent laughter and, even as she folds her arms around them, she feels a tug on her hair and the kissing grows deeper. Everything suddenly becomes more urgent, firm and hungry. Their steps quicken and it only feels like a heartbeat passes until she slams Jaime into the fridge door. She opens her eyes warily, her lips stilled on him as the appliance shakes unsteadily in its place. “Sorry,” she gasps, quiet and worried.

The green eyes peering slightly up at her are almost overtaken by darkness. She feels his smile against her own returning one and an eyebrow flicks up in amusement. “Don’t be,” he nearly purrs. And then he meets her eagerness with his own.

The softness in them falls away and what is left is hard and feral. Brienne doesn’t know how one hand can be everywhere, but it is. For her part, even whilst their lips dance and hit bruisingly, her fingernails scratch and her hands rove, firm and unforgiving over his bare skin. She grasps at him as if he might disappear, should she let go and he does no less to her. They press and grind, their tongues dance and their bodies fit. In the light of day, their blood rages with heat and they can both see it.

Brienne slides her right hand lower between them, and with a little more care than she thought she could find, wraps her fingers around his cock, one at a time. Jaime tears his lips from hers and throws his head back against the door, letting out a desperate groan. They are both taking in sharp, deep gulps of air and they look at one another as, now with a deliberate slowness, Brienne moves her hand over him.

His jaw works and with each sweep of her fingers, back and forth, he lets out low, wanting noises. But Jaime doesn’t look away from her.  Just the sight of him makes her own need coil in her, tight and thrumming. But a dozen strokes, however, sees him still her hand with his own. She pulls it away, only to find herself hauled back against him.

“Need you now,” he rasps and claims her mouth again.

Brienne reaches up, blindly groping around on top of the fridge for the small wicker basket that has recently taken up residence there, unwilling to stop tasting him. She fumbles and manages to grasp a little packet, but upends the container. She frowns slightly at the sound of squares of foil, cascading down the side of their unfortunate fridge. Jaime must feel her pause, because he mumbles lightly against her lips. “Don’t even think about it. We’ll pick them up later.”

She nods swiftly and kisses him again, only to almost yelp as he grips her, pressing in at her waist with his forearms. In a blur she is spun around and almost shoved into the nearby doorframe. Before she can even think, she can feel her shorts being pushed aside and Jaime’s fingers are inside her. One, quickly joined by another. She rocks forward slightly, gripping hard onto his shoulder as fingers slide and curl. He dips his head, licking at a nipple through her shirt, catching at it with his teeth and she keens at the heat flashing through her. He strokes into her faster, the sweet pulse inside gathering speed. “Jaime!” she cries out, pushing at his wrist until he’s gone from her. She almost grimaces at the loss. “What happened to ‘ _need you now’_?” she stutters out.

His smile is joyous, his mouth open as he breathes deeply. “You’re overdressed, Brienne.”

“Oh,” she says and in a matter of seconds is kicking her shorts away. She tears at the foil pack she’s somehow managed not to drop, whilst Jaime reaches around her to the wall outside, feeling for the light switch and turning it on with the heel of his palm.

“Just in case,” he says, and she aches with want as they come together again and pull each other from the kitchen.

In the empty room, her drink sits and cools, forgotten.

This time, they at least manage to make it as far as the other end of the hallway.

 


End file.
